


Who'd wanna be young?

by Omano



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, Implied Gabriel/Sam Winchester, M/M, if you squint hard enough - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 20:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2481494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omano/pseuds/Omano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walk off the chessboard, they said; it’ll be fun, they said. HA!</p><p>Michael is so not impressed by the looks of his vessel and people's reaction to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who'd wanna be young?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adarksweetness (chayaasi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chayaasi/gifts).



> Conceding to the pressure of [this sweet post](http://adarksweetness.tumblr.com/post/98848933888/omano-chan-reblogged-your-post-why-arent-we-into)
> 
> I finished this fic as a birthday-gift. Happy Birthday, dear! :)
> 
> Okay, it starts off a bit chaotic but I'm going somewhere, I promise!

 

Michael descended the stairs on silent feet. He had a light vessel, and also months of throwing tantrums to learn how to operate the fine motor skills.

What kind of hunters were these, seriously?

Two hunters, still bitter and blindly vengeful for the Winchester brothers starting the Apocalypse. So sloppy, so irresponsible and so annoyingly arrogant, Michael would throw them out of any kind of army in a second! So ready to misjudge, and calling Heaven’s Sword _weak_? No one had made greater mistake in human history – and trust him when he said _no one_ , he had seen some seriously stupid decisions going down. Like that Russia invasion in winter? _Twice?_ Raphael threatened to kick him out of Heaven if she had to hear about it one minute longer.

He felt his head cool, gears ticking away in precise calculation as the scene cleared in front of him, while rage burnt in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t the same as the firestorm of his grace, more of a flickering flame, but it was enough to pull the edge of his mouth into a feral smile.

Back in the motel room where the duo had found the Winchesters (and their on duty angel help without wings) they found only Dean and Michael frowning at a map when they broke down the door. A gun was pointed at both of their heads.

“Whoa-whoa!” Dean called out, hands lifting into the air slowly. “We’re on the same side here, pal.”

The scruffy hunter who didn’t look much younger than Bobby Singer tightened his hold on his shotgun, aiming at Dean’s sternum.

“Where’s your brother?”

“Well, right here,” Dean said, nodding at Michael, who only glared back at him.

It earned a bark of laughter from the lanky, psychotic looking other hunter.

“This pixie-boy?” He asked with a wide grin, edging closer to them. “A kitten’s scarier than ‘im.”

“Cut it, Tim,” the elder barked. “We came to shoot them.”

“I can feel the bullets tearing through me—“

As if to prove him wrong the gun went off, making Dean stumble back and fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The old man quickly walked up to him and with the butt of his weapon knocked the groaning Winchester unconscious.

Michael felt his muscles tense, the anger slowly building up.

“Tim!”

“But he’s not a threat.”

Michael was so stunned at being addressed as _not a threat_ that it was really no challenge knocking him out. The shock – _NOT A THREAT_ —did most of the job anyway.

So now he came for revenge. Not even to save the Winchester boys, though his brothers would certainly appreciate it. No, his sole principle as to prove to these imbeciles that even with most of his grace locked away, even in a vessel that barely looked older than 20, Michael, the Archangel could not be belittled.

He took the last step to the concrete ground of the cellar.

He saw the momentary relief wash over Sam’s bruised face when he caught sight of the angel, then in a second he swung into action.

In two short minutes Michael sank to his knees straddling the heaving Tim’s middle and took a hold of the thin strands of straw-coloured hair forcing the fright-glazed eyes to meet his cold blue ones.

“Now, who is the pixie boy?” he asked, voice cutting through the death stinking air. He felt the hunter’s nose break under his fist. “Who isn’t a threat, hmm?”

He landed punch after punch on the man until his face was so indiscernible not even his Father would recognize this pitiful one of His creations. Deaf to Sam’s calls to stop before Michael killed Tim, deaf to Dean’s groans that were trying to get the same thing across only less eloquent; the rush of adrenaline in his veins, the sweet taste in his mouth, the dull suave ache under his left eye, the blood mixing on his own bruised knuckles granted him the thrill he nowadays only felt during those petty fights with Lucifer, but that was still nothing compared to the sensation of assuring dominion, power, the taste of fear at the back of his tongue…

With two dead bodies to burn, not that it was any bother to the Winchesters as Michael was more than willing to combust the bodies in overheated blue flames of his grace after he had marvelled at the bloody brilliance of his revenge, the journey back to South Dakota was a _bit_ tense.

Sam’s silence was plain-out offending, and even Dean refused to take Michael’s side even though he had offered to heal him. But no, he had to spend minutes praying Castiel to the scene. Which left Michael sulking in the backseat with his little brother’s grave-like frown directed at him. As if he would go full Apocalypse on everyone any second!

.

Michael rummaged through the freezer, too tired and sore even to scowl at the forming layer of ice on the sides.  If memory served right, and his memory always served right, there should have been cartons of ice cream crammed into the fridge, with occasional packs of some vegetables and meat.

Now the shelves gaped at the archangel empty.

The familiar flutter of gold-foil wings pulled him away from his rather flat musings.

“You couldn’t seriously eat all this, could you?” Michael grumbled.

“I had to do something while waiting for you,” Gabriel answered, way too cheerful and high on sugar.

Michael bites back a comment of _Next time you could be the assigned hunting-angel._

“Dean won’t be impressed.” Hell, Michael _wasn’t_ impressed.

“That’s why we are going shopping, _baby bro_.”

It was Gabriel’s luck for the century that Michael had left his blade safely tucked away in his jacket sleeve, and his knuckles were already bruised, otherwise he might not have teeth to rot with all the candy he daily devoured.

“The last time I went with you anywhere I had to produce like ten IDs before _Raphael_ saved me. Not you, Raphael.”

Then Michael swore he would never ever give in to Gabriel, no matter how enthusiastically he tried to convince him that a trip to Las Vegas would help dislodge the stick shoved up his pretty ass, and how much Lucifer would appreciate that. No casinos. Ever again. Or at least until he regained access to his wings and could get safely away with murdering the whole population in the city or town wherever he was required to produce some IDs. Again. Now _that_ Lucifer would appreciate.

“Aww, aren’t you cute when you’re so upset?” Gabriel grinned cheekily. Michael suspected it was only the Antarctica-melting glare directed at him that stopped his little brother from pinching his cheek.

Good news of post-Not-Apocalypse? Gabriel lived. Bad news of post-Not-Apocalypse? Gabriel lived.

“Why _we_ , anyway?”  Seriously, Michael wasn’t that far away from tucking himself into the cooling box at this point.

“I need someone to keep me company.”

“You’d be on the phone with Sam, as always.”

“Fine, then someone who can drive.”

“You have your wings, Gabriel.”

“You can’t expect me to pop in and out of the supermarket!”

Yes. Michael totally could and did.

.

Michael slightly wondered if the sole reason Gabriel pestered him to drive (a piece of cake) was to once annoy him enough to leave his foot on the gas pedal, and eventually get caught driving over the speed limit, and then watch as Michael had to answer the police officer politely that he totally did look 23, thank you very much, besides he was older than this piece of marvel they call Earth.

Keeping Adam Milligan as a vessel was convenient in the way that he didn’t have to worry about combusting the body even when he regained all his grace, but that was it. He was tall, but slim and, before Michael had set to it, a boyish face.

Now, at least, his features were more angular, but as Lucifer near completely managed to kiss the deep frown off his brows he still barely looked early twenty-ish. Convincing his vessel to grow some stubble – which was strangely no problem to either Castiel or Lucifer – took up so much grace that Michael eventually gave up.

Gabriel joked that Michael scared the hairs so much that they would rather grow in the other way. _Hilarious._

“Has Dean gotten over his shock of Satan fucking his little brother, yet?” Gabriel asked suddenly, looking up from texting with Sam.

Michael pressed his lips into a firm line. He forced himself to answer cool and measured. “I guess so.”

“Luci looks like he could be your creepy uncle, it must be a shock for poor Dean-O.”

“For the hundredth time, Gabriel, we aren’t involved in any intercourse of the sexual kind with Lucifer.”

“Certainly not at the moment.”

“Not _any_ moment.”

The phone lit up in Gabriel’s hand, and for a moment Michael dared to hope that the topic was over.

Not that he was so capable of feeling ashamed, but he really didn’t mind that Sam and Dean felt too embarrassed to prod at the issue too long as for what Michael was up to wearing their barely-ever-seen little brother. The massive waves of hostility that had rolled in his direction from the Winchesters were more than enough. Seriously, even a month ago Michael was the most hated resident at Bobby Singer’s Detoxication Motel for Angels Getting off the Apocalypse.

“How do you think Adam would react to you popping his cherry?”

Michael forgot to take his foot off the accelerator and the car made a really appropriate, indignant growl.

“I’m sure you pop a boner now and then, with the teenage vessel and his inherited sex-drive,” Gabriel went on unphazed, “I’m just wondering how you two handle that. You know, if the banging, and the reorganizing of furniture is from you doing the dirty…”

Michael rolled his eyes.  Gabriel was practically a Pagan in his books, and this was the only reason he forgave his little brother for not getting that angels weren’t so sex-driven like him. Well, they were quite _un_ -sex-driven, as far as Michael and Lucifer were concerned.

“Are you done digging in my non-existent sexual life, or should I start braiding your hair?”

Gabriel blinked back at him, first with surprised bewilderment then his face cracked up into a 1000 W grin.

“You’re spending too much time around your one and true vessel, Mickey,” he said with overdramatic disapproval pinched over his brows. “Sass is an incurable disease.”

.

At the shop Michael was ready to face Lucifer’s rage back at home, and throw their agreement to the wind, unfold his wings and leave Gabriel. Sadly, Michael was inbred with a too strong sense of duty for that.

When he reached the cashier’s desk he was more than irritated. Gabriel had never left an opportunity to pop up in front of him (what was that excuse for dragging Michael along? _not_ flying?) shoving yet another page from a porn magazine in Michael’s face.

So, when the guy behind the cash registered told him that “I’d need to see an ID for those beers,” Michael was ready for committing murder. Second time that day.

“I left it in my jacket,” Michael pressed out. His hand started shivering slightly resting on the desk.

The cashier looked him along, bored, and sighed, as if Michael was the greatest idiot in the world.

“Do you know how many times I’ve heard this pathetic excuse?”

“I assure you—“

“I don’t have time for this, kid. Do you want me to call your parents?”

Michael saw red. Faster than light, or as fast as this human body could move pushed to its limits, he reached over the counter, one hand bunched up in the uniform vest, the other’s two fingers pressed to the guy’s forehead.

“You’d better call my Father now,” he hissed into the man’s face, and was searching for the last morsels of his exhausted grace, when with a loud “ _Holla, baby bro_!” Gabriel turned up dragging him back to the right side of the cashier’s desk.

“Sorry, sorry, he’s off his meds,” Gabriel excused Michael’s behaviour to the spluttering clerk, who by this point was threatening to call the police.

Somehow Gabriel only burst into half an hour of side-splitting laughter when he had loaded everything, including the furious Michael, into the car.

.

Michael was sulking in the corner of the library. He couldn’t concentrate on the book opened in his lap as he was seething with anger, and also busy balancing a package of frozen mixed Mexican vegetables on his knuckles. He still had nothing on the bruise throbbing on his cheek.

He was so fed up being called _baby brother_ , _kid_ , _sweet-cheeks, pretty boy, pixie-boy_ or the worst that Gabriel had the greatest kick out of was _the Winchesters’ love child_.

These humans were so impressed by guessing the age of their universe, yet they kept belittling Michael who was third oldest next to God and Death! All because of a vessel.

“What got your feathers all ruffled this time, Micha?”

The murder barely flickered in his eyes when Michael was suddenly scooped up from his seat before he was repositioned in Lucifer’s lap.

Suddenly, as if he was swapped away into an entirely different place, Michael felt the tension melting off his shoulder. He worked his hands under Lucifer’s gloriously cool palms, wriggling until the Morning Star had no other option but to lace their fingers together. The sweetest balm to Michael’s injuries. Also he tucked his face into the crook of his brother’s neck. He had to crane his neck in a nearly uncomfortable degree, but he was way too tired to care.

“Can I kill Gabriel?” Michael asked.

Lucifer’s chuckle brushed along Michael’s jawline.

“Should we make it into a family tradition?”

“Why do you enjoy teasing me for this vessel so much? I’m as tall as you.”

“It’s the face, Micha,” Lucifer purred. “Looks matter to these maggots way too much.”

“You aren’t helping either.”

“When I enjoy picking you up so much.”

Michael only groaned.

“Do you want to just cuddle and watch some movie?” Lucifer offered placatingly. They were both assigned a long list of movies to watch (all angels did actually). Just to humour their hosts, both archangel ticked at least one off the list each week. “You can pick the film.”

The older perked up immediately.

“I want to watch the Lion King.”

Lucifer made a face, as if he was punched in the guts. “Again?”

Michael pouted. “You promised.”

“Fine, fine, just don’t frown.”

Lucifer kissed him, gently, then despite the weak protest scooped his little big brother in his arms and carried him into the living room.

Probably he was the only one who truly loved Michael with this human visage. It helped with adapting and soothing his coldly burning anger. If the millennia-old frowns lifted up from Michael’s forehead, with his grace warmly shining through, with a little help of imagination Lucifer could see his brother from Before. Kind, generous, drunk on love.

It helped him realize how much in love _he_ was still.  

So now he could listen to Michael’s grumblings of “Walk off the chessboard, they said; it’ll be fun, they said. HA!” with a soft smile, tuck his brother back to his side and kiss his temple with the dreadful knowledge that the animals’ singing will echo in his head for _days_.

 


End file.
